Princess Elizabeth's Spy(19)

Pleased, Chuck sat up. “What did you say you and David made? Now that you mention it, I’m absolutely starving.”


It had taken Alistair Tooke several impassioned letters, dozens of pleading phone calls, and a serious threat to let Windsor’s gardens go to seed, but finally he was able to obtain a late-evening interview with the King.

He approached King George VI cautiously, hat in hand. He had spoken to the King before, of course. But it was always outside, in the fresh air, and the topic was the health of the Windsors’ many varieties of roses or the productivity of the victory gardens. This was different.

The King’s study was a large room, with high-vaulted ceilings and tall windows. The monarch himself was at a large carved rosewood desk.

“Yes, Tooke?” the King said, looking up from his paperwork, his face long and careworn, his eyes clear and blue. The walls were upholstered in red watered silk, although the heavy gold frames that had once displayed paintings by artists such as Rembrandt, Rubens, Canaletto, and Gainsborough were empty, the canvases in indefinite storage. But floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-tooled volumes still graced the walls, alternating with long tapestries. The windows behind him were blinded, covered in impenetrable blackout curtains.

Alistair gave a nervous bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, taking a few steps forward on the soft Persian carpet. Suddenly realizing how dirty the thick soles of his shoes were, he stopped.

The King blinked. “Well?”

“It’s—it’s about my wife, sir. Marta? Marta Tooke? She teaches piano to some of the young ’uns? Well, they came for her.” He took a step closer as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “They just came in the middle of the night and took her away. In handcuffs, sir.”

The King scratched his head. “Who? Who came in the night?” Then, “Ah, yes, Marta K-k-k-kunst Tooke. She’s your wife, is she? Something to do with sending letters to Germany?”

Tooke felt a hot wave of rage crash through him. He took a ragged breath and continued. “My wife is innocent, sir,” he insisted, hands wringing his hat. “She’s a good woman, a fine woman.…”

“Of course, of course, Tooke,” the King said reassuringly. “We just need to follow p-p-protocol here. The whole thing will be sorted in a few days, and then she’ll come back here, safe and sound, none the worse for w-w-w-wear.” With a deep sigh, the King surveyed the mountains of paper on his desk, then rose. “Duty calls, I’m afraid, Tooke.”

Alistair Tooke suddenly realized something very, very important. “Sir, Lady Lily is German. She’s German too. Before the war, she used to come by our flat. She and Marta would drink German coffee and speak German together.”

“What?” said the King, distracted, rounding the desk with a manila folder in his hand. “Oh, right, right. Lady Lily.” He walked to the door.

Alistair turned to follow and pressed further. “Lady Lily isn’t in an internment camp, after all. Sir,” he added.

The king had already passed Alistair and had entered the hall. “Lady Lily’s p-p-position here is quite relevant,” he said.

It had been a long night and a long day, and Alistair Tooke was not his usual self. “A Lady-in-Waiting, sir? Relevant?”

“Yes, Tooke,” the King snapped. “Lily Howell is a family friend. And she’s needed here at the castle. I’m sorry about your w-w-w-wife, but it will sort itself out.” And then he was on his way, down the oak-paneled corridor.

“Bleeding buggered buggering bastard,” Tooke muttered under his breath, standing on the carpet, feeling abandoned and betrayed. “What if someone you loved were taken away?” He clenched his fists and deliberately ground his muddy boots into the carpet, leaving black stains.





Chapter Six


Maggie knew about Windsor Castle.

She knew it dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. She knew it was where King Henry VIII awaited the news of Anne Boleyn’s execution, where Queen Elizabeth I celebrated her first Christmas, where Charles I’s severed head was laid to rest, where George III went mad, and where the young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had spent their honeymoon.

And Maggie had seen pictures of Windsor Castle, of course. When she was growing up in Wellesley, Massachusetts, long before she came to London, her Aunt Edith had a biscuit tin with a picture of the castle with the Royal Standard waving proudly from its Great Tower behind official portraits of King George V and his wife, Queen Mary—the current King’s parents.

But nothing had prepared her for the reality of the sheer mass and scale of the castle, dark and shadowy in the gathering lavender twilight. It was tremendous. For just a moment, the heavy clouds parted and a beam of sunlight pierced through, illuminating the gray stone crenellated walls, battlements, turrets, parapets, and towers. The mullioned windows lit up with liquid gold.